American Horror Story - Season 2AU E6 - All Hallows
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 6: The season of the witch has come to Briarcliff. The hospital's latest addition to staff introduces new and unsettling procedures to the ward. Tate and Violet are finally reunited, under less than ideal circumstances. Patients are disappearing but who has time to notice when there's a freak show to perform?
1. Chapter 1 - Tate and Dandy

**1968 - October**

After a seeming eternity of physical therapy in Dr. Heath's unit, Tate was finally being transferred back to the main ward. He couldn't be happier. Long ago he'd grown tired of being managed with the IV feed. He and the doctor had butted heads several times over his treatment, and Tate had found himself tied to the bed 24-7 despite having mastered walking again—or because of it. Often he had been sedated but many times in recent days the doctor had left him awake for hours, in four-point restraint, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling.

The doctor's interest in his new patient had waned significantly as it became apparent the surgery was a complete success. Tate was too high-profile a case to tinker with much at this point and Heath was only interested in patients he could modify. Having a new and attractive nurse on hand was a distraction to him as well, one Tate witnessed first-hand as he was being strapped to the gurney that would carry him back through the underground tunnels to the main building.

"Doctor," the pretty nurse simpered. "I don't know how to do it. Show me?"

Dr. Heath smiled at the young brunette and came around the gurney to stand right beside her. He took one of her hands and placed it on the buckle that would secure the strap on Tate's left ankle.

"You take this part, here, and slide it in... here," he instructed, slowly moving her hand through the motions.

Somehow the doctor managed to make the act of buckling the strap very suggestive. The nurse blushed. Tate grinned. He found the whole thing awkward and funny. The IV drip was keeping his brain too vague to think in straight sentences or he would've remarked on it.

The doctor used his body to usher the nurse to the last strap where they repeated the suggestive buckling. It was all Tate could do not to laugh. He knew Dr. Heath well enough by then to know such an outburst would be punished and the teen really didn't want to stay in the man's ward any longer, so he kept it clamped down. He sure would have some stories to tell later—if he could remember them. His experience under the doctor's care was already a distorted mess of memories he couldn't rely on. Some he planned to forget as soon as he could.

It wasn't long before a big bruiser of an orderly appeared to wheel Tate's gurney away. Down the hall behind them, the nurse's flirty giggle echoed on the gray tiles in a hollow way. The only sound for a long time after that was the squeaky wheels on the tunnel floor as they headed back to Briarcliff's above-ground facility.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

Most patients were at occupational or personal therapy when Tate was returned to the ward. When they got to his room, the orderly unstrapped him from the gurney and let him get down. It was a shaky experience for the young man: His legs were still weak and he overestimated himself when he slid off. His knees buckled and he stumbled into the wall. The orderly ignored him and wheeled the hospital bed away.

Tate was awake and on his own for the first time in over a month.

It felt weird.

Even if he hadn't been under the influence of powerful drugs, the adjustment would be an odd one: Going from being strapped down and under almost constant supervision, to having freedom of movement. Only he wasn't truly free. If he was free, he could walk out the doors of the ward and go where he wanted. Still, the change _felt_ like freedom.

He decided to exercise that limited freedom and get the sweater his mother brought him. It would be nice to have the security and familiar scent of the old garment. Only when he opened his nightstand, the sweater was gone. Someone else's belongings were stowed in there—and they owned a lot more stuff than Tate did.

At first he thought maybe the orderly had brought him to the wrong room but that was easily checked. He was in the right room. It was the stuff that was wrong. Irritated and curious, Tate dug through the contents of the cabinet. He found a fluffy white robe and a purple satin smoking jacket. There was a photograph of a pretty redheaded woman in a 40's style dress. Some men's house slippers. A pacifier.

The pacifier caught him. The rubber teat was fastened to an intricately carved backing plate that looked to be made of pure silver. Who would make such a thing? And why would someone, here in the adult wing, have such an item? It was a mystery. The thing was ornate and odd all at once.

Tate's first impulse was stash the peculiar soother in his hiding place in the mattress, but the one with the hole had been replaced. The new mattress had no holes. There wasn't anywhere else in the room to hide the pacifier but he didn't want to put it back either. Not that he wanted to use it; that would be gross. He just liked how unusual it was. He had a box of unusual things back home and he missed it. The pacifier would make a good start to a new collection.

He finally accepted there was no place in the cell where he could hide his treasure so he hid it in his hand and ventured out into the hall. No help there: A bug couldn't hide in that open corridor. He went to the common room next, thinking he might squirrel the pacifier in between the cushions of one of the couches. He saw Vida sitting next to the bookcase but he only waved to her. He didn't want her to see his treasure because he knew she would want it.

He made his way to the couch furthest from the set of double doors, back where Mort often liked to stand on his head. The scrawny man wasn't there right now so Tate felt secure in burying the pacifier there in the old couch next to the barred windows. The nearby radiator was putting off heat, which made Tate suddenly aware of how cold he was. He'd wanted to go say hi to Vida once he'd stashed his prize but the warmth and the relative softness of the couch lulled him. Soon he was asleep.

—

Around 11 the common room got really noisy, when several of the patients returned from various jobs around the asylum. Tate groggily made his way back to his room where he collapsed on the cot and promptly went right back to sleep. He was so solidly out, he didn't notice the shadow fall over him a little over a half hour later. He couldn't miss the rough shake his shoulder received, though. Startled by the rude contact, the teen blinked blearily up at the person standing over him.

"You're in my bed," the dark-haired guy said. He looked to be roughly Tate's age but was a lot bigger and better built. He also had bandages over both of his cheeks, taped excessively to keep them in place.

"S'my bed," Tate grunted and rolled over to shut the guy out.

Dandy didn't like that one bit. Before, he would have thrown a fit. But that was the old Dandy. New Dandy was a lot more proactive. He grabbed the intruder by the shoulder and hauled him out of the bed with it. The blond teen fell gracelessly to the floor. When he got to his feet, he was mad.

"The hell, pal?" he demanded, puffing up his chest.

Puffed up or no, the other patient was still bigger than Tate was and he knew it. He crowded the blond boy's space, using his body to force the him away from the cot. He'd seen the orderlies use that move before and found it quite effective himself, just then.

"You're in my room," Dandy said, his words clipped with irritation. "Get out."

Tate bristled. "This is my room. Has been for..." He hesitated only briefly before realizing he had no idea how long he'd been in Briarcliff—or even what day it was. "Forever."

"I know it's only fitting given where we are but you're mad," Dandy said loftily. "I've been in this room since I got here and I've never seen you before. Now get. Out."

He crowded Tate's space again in an attempt to muscle him out of the room. That was more than the blond boy could take. He gave the bigger guy a shove with both hands; hard enough to make Dandy stumble back a step.

The push came as a surprise. Dandy hadn't expected the other boy to fight back and he hadn't expected such strength, given his size. Neither rattled him but both were of note. He cocked his head and raised his fists. He would've smiled if it wouldn't tug on his healing stitches beneath the bandages. He'd been hall fighting for weeks at Briarcliff, and winning most of his bouts. He was ready to go.

The boxer's stance only made Tate hesitate an instant then he was launching himself at the other guy. Rather than try to take him on in a fist fight, though, he grabbed hold of Dandy's middle and used his weight and forward momentum to plow the bigger guy into the wall.

The move was met with a satisfying "oof" as the air left Dandy's lungs in a rush. Temporarily winded, he fought to catch a breath. Tate used the moment to haul the other guy's shirt up over his head in an attempt to blind him. He only succeeded partway. Dandy was winded but he wasn't helpless.

While they wrestled over the shirt, Tate aimed a knee at the other patient's side and scored a hit. Dandy found his breath and let it go with an enraged roar. One hand shot out of the shirt and seized the smaller teen by the throat. Tate felt his back hit the wall and suddenly their positions were reversed, only he was much worse off than his opponent had been. He couldn't breathe.

"Put him down, Dandy."

Sister Jude's crisp voice sliced through the commotion. Dandy's grip loosened and Tate staggered to an upright position. He thought real hard about punching the other guy in the kidney but with Sister Jude standing right there, flanked by Patrick, he settled for rubbing his throat and glaring.

"He was in my bed," the dark-haired guy said, slipping into a petulant tone that made Tate give him the side eye.

"These two were put together?" Sister Jude said incredulously, twisting so she could glance back at the orderly, who shrugged and spread his hands. He hadn't assigned the cells. The nun's look soured. She looked back to the two young men but it was Patrick she addressed. "Move Dandy to Mister Bastion's cell. He's... left us. He won't be needing it any longer."

Dandy gathered his things, not noticing in the shuffle that his pacifier was missing. Once they were alone, Sister Jude gave Tate a solid look from head to toe.

"Not even back a day and already making trouble," she said in a critical tone that made Tate's stomach ice over.

"He had me pinned!" he said defensively. "I was sleeping and he came in here and attacked me!"

Sister Jude looked unimpressed, though his tone and volume brought Cecil to the door. "You have your own rooms now," she said. "I don't want any more problems between the two of you."

"Tell him that!"

Sister Jude gave him a look to freeze blood. "I'm telling you. Now drop your pants and bend over the bed. Cecil? The cane, please."

Tate let his head fall back as he sent a disbelieving look heavenward to keep his eyes from leaking from frustration. He'd done nothing wrong and yet he was the one being punished. "Fuck!" he exclaimed and thrust the hospital-issue pants down.

"Vulgarity will only add more sin to your soul," the nun chastised as she took the thin rattan cane from the orderly.

Tate dropped to his knees beside the cot and flopped over it, scowling deeply. He seriously considered telling her to go fuck herself but the cane sliced through the air in a deadly whistle and cut into his ass so fiercely it made him yelp. It had been a while since the Sister caned him and she made sure to remind him with each fiery stroke why he would want to avoid it in the future.

When it was over he had to go join the line of men in the hall who were waiting for lunch. He could feel some of them glaring at him for holding up the meal but he didn't care. He also didn't care about the looks of sympathy some of the others sent him. He knew how he must look, all red-faced and puffy-eyed and miserable. He kept his eyes on the floor even after the line started to move, all the way to the cafeteria.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I used the AHS punkin I made for this Episode's cover image. I like to use pictures that hint at what's in store and with this ep focusing on fall and Halloween, it seemed the best fit.

We've jumped ahead a month from where we were at when we last left off. What happened between then and now is just more of the same so I felt safe to skip to when Tate was released. Not that he's thrilled to be out now. Heath's ward was boring but at least he was safe from Sister Jude there.

Next chapter: Tate sees Dr. Thredson again for the first time in weeks.


	2. Chapter 2 - Head Games

Despite the title reference to a Foreigner song, this chapter's musical selection is brought to you by Lucas King. For the best ambiance while reading, play these songs in this order by adding Youtube's URL to the beginning:

Dementia - watch?v=nzxjYQ8aZuk

Sociopath - watch?v=VagES3pxttQ

Psycho - watch?v=nzxjYQ8aZuk

* * *

.

In an attempt to be festive for October, the staff had hung some paper Jack-o-lanterns and black cats on the walls of the mezzanine. None of the images were scary, but they awed several of the patients, who weren't used to seeing anything on the bare gray walls.

"Tate!"

The call cut through the teen's self-pity and he looked in the direction it had come from. Violet was across the room, already seated at the women's table. She waved and smiled big. Seeing her dressed as a patient was a surprise to him. He'd assumed she would somehow be exempt from responsibility for her part in his escape and he'd be dealt all the blame. Her condition was more surprising still: Her long brown hair was dull and ratty and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was still beautiful, only now her beauty was haunted by the shadows of Briarcliff.

He lifted a hand to wave and he smiled back, but he could feel it didn't make it to his eyes. His butt hurt too much for genuine smiles—a reality that reinforced itself when he sat down. Even moving gingerly, it hurt to sit. In order to eat, he had to perch with his ass hanging off the bench, his weight supported by his thighs. It sucked big balls.

After the meal came the pill line, but Tate wasn't given a cup. He had to get a shot. They weren't taking any chances on his hiding medication. It bothered him, but only until the medication kicked in. By the time Patrick came to take him to see Dr. Thredson, even the welts on his backside didn't matter anymore.

What mattered to Tate was the fact that he didn't want to see the doctor. He wanted to see Violet. Patrick didn't give him a choice, though, and took him directly to the long spiral staircase that ascended to the asylum's upper office levels. Sister Jude's "Stairway to Heaven".

When they got to the doctor's office, Patrick went to wait in the hall while Tate flopped down into one of the wooden chairs. Instantly he regretted it. He hissed and slouched down so his backside was no longer in contact with the seat.

Dr. Thredson looked up from the paperwork on his desk, bushy brows arching above his thick-framed glasses. He stared for a moment then reached up to rub his forehead with a thumb and two fingers. Then he hit the record button on the tape recorder.

"What happened?"

Tate shifted, trying without success to get comfortable. "They fucked up and put some... maniac in the same cell as me. Asshole wakes me up by—by throwing me on the floor. Then Sister Jude punishes _me_ for it!" As high as he was, he was unable to give the words the severity they needed. It was all he could do just to get the sentences strung together coherently.

Dr. Thredson made a few notes then looked at his patient. The teen was pale and had lost a good deal of weight post-surgery. The incision Dr. Heath had made was nearly healed and ran along Tate's hairline from center of his head to his temple on the right-hand side. The hair had been shaved there for the operation but had grown a few centimeters, making him look even wilder than usual.

"We'll get the room situation sorted out," said the doctor.

"Sister Jude's already moved the guy," Tate reported. He tried curling up in the chair but that didn't feel any better.

Dr. Thredson's brows hiked again, briefly. "Well, that's good." He frowned thoughtfully. "How are you feeling about being back in the general ward again?"

Tate sighed softly and looked up at the ceiling. He didn't feel like being shrunk. Several seconds slid by before he spoke. "When can I see my mother?"

A disappointing redirection. Thredson tried to catch his patient's eye but Tate steadfastly refused to tear his attention away from the ceiling.

"I appreciate that you wish to see your family," the doctor said carefully. He knew from Dr. Heath's notes that the teen was being uncooperative but had hoped it was something between the two of them. "But we need to see some milestones first, Tate. Now, you're still recovering from surgery—"

Tate rubbed an eye with the fingers of one hand, feeling overwhelmed and unhappy. "I want to go home," he said, ignoring what the doctor was trying to say. He didn't want to hear it.

Dr. Thredson lit a cigarette and leaned across the desk to offer it to his patient. "You know you can't do that."

The teen looked at the cigarette blankly for a moment then stirred to take it. He sucked on it for a long time, hot-boxing the filter. "My head doesn't hurt anymore."

The doctor lit a cigarette for himself and decided to let the boy lead the session, for a bit anyway. "That's good to hear."

"It kind of felt... pressurized. In my brain. Earlier. When, um." Tate sucked on the cigarette again. He wrestled with his fuzzy brain, almost losing what he was saying in an attempt to remember details. "When I was fighting that dick. He choked me." He lifted his chin.

Thredson leaned forward. Even in the dim light he could see marks on the boy's neck. He frowned and wrote some more on his notepad. "I think anyone would feel pressure in their brain if they were being choked. Are you sure you're all right?"

Tate rubbed his throat and nodded. "Yeah." He smiled crookedly then. "Sister Jude hits harder than that asshole." He was only half kidding.

Thredson's expression flickered. He didn't approve of the church's use of corporal punishment and wished there was more he could do about it than just complain. "Do you know which patient it was? Can you describe him?"

"Yeah. She said his name." Tate nibbled on his lower lip as he tried to remember it. "It was something weird. Dandy. Black hair. Athletic."

"Dandy did it?" That made looking into the matter a lot easier since he was also a patient of Thredson's. "Interesting."

"Why? Who is he?"

"Just another patient here at Briarcliff." The doctor tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. "Now let's focus on you, Tate."

Tate didn't like being shunted aside but he was willing to play. "Okay. Fine. Where's my sweater?"

Dr. Thredson frowned, puzzled. "Your sweater?"

"Yeah," Tate said, seizing the moment. "I had one my mom sent me. It was in the, um. The thing. With the door."

"The nightstand?" the doctor offered.

"Yeah. It's gone and that dickhead's stuff was in there instead."

"We'll see about tracking it down," said Thredson, to appease him. "In the meantime I can contact your mother and see if she can send you another one. Would you like that?"

Tate shifted and put his cigarette out. Then he folded his arms over his middle and sagged more in the chair. There was no way to get comfortable on the hard wooden seat. "Yeah," he said grudgingly.

The doctor also put out his cigarette. "Would you like to move to the couch?"

There was a noticeable pause while Tate considered. Then: "Yeah."

Once he'd moved to the brown leather lounger, Dr. Thredson moved the recorder to his desk then moved his chair to be nearer his patient. "Better?"

"Yeah," Tate admitted. He was propped on his side, alleviating pressure on his backside. He shoved an arm under his ear so he could prop his head. "I didn't have to come back, you know."

The doctor arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Out there. When they popped the tires. I could've let 'em kill me." Tate's eyes were wide and unfocused as he looked back at that hazy night.

"Why didn't you?"

The teen gave a short laugh. "Violet, mostly. I was afraid if they shot me, they'd shoot her too." The dimpled smile died. "I d'know, doc. Even before they blew the tires I was thinking... Where the fuck am I gonna go?" He laughed again and drew his knees up to his stomach so he could hug them with his free arm. "I'd freeze my ass off being a hobo in Canada. Fuck."

He sucked a breath then as the enormity of his situation threatened to overcome his will to keep it suppressed. Tears tried to come but he blinked them right back again.

"Tell me what you're thinking," the doctor prompted gently. He wasn't blind.

Tate laughed and then blinked hard to be sure nothing would leak. "Just. You know. They say it's easier for a rich guy to get into heaven than it is for somebody to get out of Briarcliff. Only I did. I got out. And when I was out there—"

He laughed again though his expression was closer to horrified than amused. "I knew I wasn't... out. Not really. Out would be... going to the store without having to worry who's gonna see. Being able to go home. Fuck Canada." He laughed and a tear dripped out. It skimmed his cheek and disappeared into his sleeve. "Nah. I don't hate Canada. Hockey's pretty cool. And maple syrup. That shit's the best. Canada's all right. I just couldn't... live there."

Thredson was tempted to let him ramble on, just to hear what came out, but he wanted a little more direction to the session. "Without surgery, you wouldn't have lived very long anyway. Violet didn't understand how urgent your condition was when she took you out of here."

"Yeah, well," Tate mumbled. "I guess she's stuck here now, too. Maybe I should've made 'em shoot us."

"If you really felt that way, you wouldn't be sitting here," the doctor reminded. Then: "Because of your condition at the time, you're not being held legally responsible for what happened. That's all on Violet. What you do now is up to you. I think I can help you, Tate, if you'll work with me. But I can only help you if you let me."

The teen's dark eyes met the doctor's and for just an instant Tate tried to picture what that might be like: Letting someone know exactly what was going on in his head. But he could see the way the therapist was watching him, analyzing his every move and quirk. He didn't like it. It wasn't worth the risk for the gratification the purge would give and he knew that wasn't a door he could shut once it was open.

"Why?" Tate was thinking out loud but he left the question there just because he didn't want to explain it.

Dr. Thredson propped his arms on the notepad he'd brought over with him when he moved his chair. "I know you want out, Tate, but you and I both know that traditional routes won't get you anywhere. If you somehow manage to convince the staff here and the court system that you're sane enough to stand trial, you will face life in prison or the death penalty."

Tate's expression soured at the unexpected reality slap. Thredson didn't give him a chance to react more than that.

"Before the shooting, what were you planning to do with your life, Tate?"

The teen rubbed his forehead, narrowly missing his incision site. He felt attacked. Ambushed. "School. I was... going to school."

"For the rest of your life?"

Tate shot the doctor a dirty look, wounded. "I was going to be an ornithologist. What the fuck does it matter? My life's over. You just said so."

"Your life isn't over," Dr. Thredson corrected. "It will just be different than you had imagined. There are steps you can take that will eventually lead to freedom. Steps that don't involve the prison system. I can help you outline the path, but you're the only one who can travel it. Do you understand?"

The teen wrinkled his nose, not sure what to think. He got the impression the doctor was implying more than he was saying. Tate was just too high to figure out what. "What do I have to do?"

The doctor sat up straighter and pushed his glasses up his nose. "The first thing you need to do is apologize to Sister Jude."

Tate stared at him. "What for?"

Thredson folded his hands in his lap in a loose manner that allowed him to continue to express himself with them, as he was inclined to do. "You started off on her bad side even before you met her, due to the nature of your crime. Sister Jude believes mental illness is another name for sin. Catholics love confession, as you're well aware. Productivity, prayer, and purification are the three 'P's they run this place on. If you apologize for being an unruly patient, she's likely to see it as progress. You just have to make it seem sincere."

The younger man was torn between outrage and curiosity. "You want me to pretend to be sorry... so she'll stop being such a bitch?"

"No, Tate," the doctor frowned. "I'm telling you that you need to show her that you understand what she expects of you, and that you're willing to do it."

To Tate's ears, that sounded a lot like the same thing, but he could just be hearing what he wanted to. His mother always accused him of that. "Oh. I..." He scrunched his face up again as he thought about apologizing. "I guess I could do that. If you think it'll get me closer to getting out of here."

"If you follow the path I outline," said Dr. Thredson mildly. "You'll eventually migrate into the work program. Once you're there, it will only be a matter of time before you're shifted to an outpatient status. You'd only have to check in with the asylum periodically and provide proof that you're following the aftercare program."

That didn't sound exactly like freedom but Tate was in no position to think clearly about the matter, or debate it. He was tired from all the talking and he still felt like the doctor had sucker-punched him. "Okay. Yeah. Fine. I'll say sorry to the Sister. Just. Do you think you can help me with what to say? I can't think real good on the meds you got them sticking me with."

Thredson had anticipated that complaint, only he'd expected it earlier. "I can." He paused, then added: "Once you've shown you can follow the program, your medication will be adjusted. Everything is on you, Tate. You're the one who decides where this ride goes."

"Some ride." Tate rubbed his nose, finding the man's logic tricky to follow at the moment. "I'm tired."

The therapist nodded and got to his feet. He set the notepad down on his chair and offered his patient a hand up. "Go get some rest. We'll talk again soon. In the meantime, I need you to stay focused on not letting your anger control you. Avoid fights. If someone is bothering you, go find a staff member immediately."

"What if it's a staff member bothering me?"

Thredson's mouth tightened. "Try to do what they want and hopefully that won't be an issue."

Tate knew that was a pipe dream but didn't have the mental capacity to correct the doctor on that mistaken assumption. "Can I go now?"

The doctor nodded then called for Patrick, who escorted Tate back down to the ward.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Dr. Hervey Cleckley coined the term "psychopath" back in 1941. The term was used to describe a person who seemed normal outwardly-in fact they were typical charismatic and likable-but were psychotic beneath the facade. Their sanity was clever act; a mask. Dr. Thredson is trying to teach Tate how to put on a mask of sanity. We'll see how well that goes.

Incidentally, in my Murder House fanfic, Ben spent some time in an asylum as a teen and the doctor in charge of him taught him how to mask up. It's why he was so into trying to help Tate: He really did see himself in the boy. The deja vu here isn't coincidence. Like the show, my fanfics are all related somehow.

Next time: Tate finally gets to catch up with Violet. Plus: Drama in the common room. You know that won't be good.


	3. Chapter 3 - Troublemakers

This chapter is a double-wide but I had to keep it all together because it just didn't chop up smaller.

For extra horror, put ' _Dominique_ ' by the Singing Nun on replay for the whole scene in the common room, like I did while I was writing it.

* * *

Tate would have liked to go back to his room when he got finished with personal therapy but the staff always locked the doors from 1:30 to 3:30. He still wasn't sure why and thought he should ask someone but at the moment he didn't care enough to bother. He almost sat down right there next to his room, like a couple of other guys were doing, but then he remembered: "Violet."

Suddenly feeling much more energized, if not alert, he headed for the common area. When he got there, the south double doors were wide open and the sound of the Singing Nun could be heard grinding away on the old record player.

The room was darker than usual thanks to a heavily overcast sky outside. The concrete floors and dark walls sucked up what little light there was left, painting everything in lifeless shades of gray. The room was full: All the seats had bodies in them. He saw an old couple playing checkers. The old lady was toothless and drooled on herself but neither of them minded.

In the sea of strange and contorting faces, Tate finally spotted Violet. She was sitting near the piano, on one of the old couches. She wasn't alone. John was there and there was a skinny girl Tate hadn't seen before. The people he knew outnumbered the ones he didn't so he closed the distance.

"Hey," he said, to include everyone.

"Tate!" Violet chirped and hopped up so fast, the meds made her dizzy. She hugged him before thinking to look at his scar. "Oh. Does it— it doesn't hurt still, does it?"

He hugged her back and didn't let go. "Nah. I don't even feel it. But that may be 'cause they're giving me shots."

"Shots?"

"Hey, Tate," John greeted with a quick smile before looking back to his notepad. That's what Tate liked about John: No matter what you looked like, he just kept on being John.

"Tate!"

Shelly hit him from the other side with a hard hug that staggered him. Violet stumbled and he let go of her so she could catch her balance. He looked at Shelly then gave her a one-armed hug before trying to peel her off.

"The guards're watching," he said.

And they were. Max and a new guy were looking right at the group like they expected trouble—or wanted it. The new guy was a brick of a man who looked like he would enjoy pounding a person to a bloody pulp. Reluctantly, Shelly let go of him.

"I don't care," she huffed. "Let 'em watch. They're just jealous." She turned toward the orderlies then and stuck out her tongue. The gesture might have meant more if she didn't also lift her skirt to flash her panties at them. That just made them grin.

Violet reclaimed her seat on the couch and Tate joined her, settling gingerly. The cushions felt much better on his sore ass than Dr. Thredson's chair. Shelly sat down beside him on the other side, crowding up to him.

"How was Heath's ward?" John asked.

"Sucked," answered Tate without hesitation. "After they operated, my legs wouldn't work right. I'm still kinda..." He waved a hand in a wobbly way.

"You lost a lot of weight," Shelly observed, hugging his arm.

Violet looked at the other girl then at Tate, who suddenly found himself in a situation he never would have expected. He'd never had a girlfriend before and he didn't consider Shelly one, even though they'd had sex. He and Violet had never talked about such things but after their road trip, he sort of assumed they had a thing going and had been hoping to pursue that. Which would be difficult to do with Shelly latched onto his arm.

He looked at her arms and thought about what he should do. Thinking was tricky though. Nearby, the song ended and the needle lifted. The arm swung back to the beginning of the record and the needle touched down on the grooved surface. The song started again.

Across the room, Dandy had spied the small group and was also trying to decide what to do. He wanted to talk to Violet about the show but he hated that the blond boy was sitting beside her.

"Want me to take him out?" Boyd asked. He'd noticed the way Dandy was glaring at the other guy.

Dandy blinked out of his dark thoughts and looked down at his wild-bearded companion. The loyal offer was a surprise but he hid it under a genial smile. "No. Thank you, Boyd, but I need you for rehearsal tomorrow. You can't help if you're in the quiet room."

Boyd nodded but Dandy didn't notice. He was thinking. Then inspiration hit and he went over to the little joke of an "art corner", half-hidden behind the checkers table. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper, ignoring the grunts of the pinhead woman who was there scribbling in a child's coloring book.

Dandy took a red crayon, with disdain for its small size. Then he wrote a note as best as he could with the inadequate tool. Once he'd finished, he folded it up and handed it to Boyd.

"Take this to Violet for me," he instructed. When Boyd tried to take the note, Dandy didn't let go. He lowered his chin and raised his brows. "Give it only to Violet. If you do, I'll give you another chocolate." He let go of the note then and Boyd darted off with it.

"Chocolate!" the pinhead crowed.

She finally registered to him and he looked at her curiously. "Haven't I seen you in a sideshow?"

The woman laughed and hugged herself. Dandy wasn't sure what to make of that answer so he skipped ahead.

"Would you like to earn a chocolate too?" he smiled.

She smiled back, real big.

—

Boyd's arrival with the note was sufficient to dispel the tension at the couch. The note stirred interest when the wild-eyed man handed it to Violet.

"It's just for you," Boyd insisted. He watched her, wide-eyed, for a few awkward moments, then left.

"What is it?" Shelly wanted to know. She tried to grab it but Violet was too quick.

Tate, trapped between them, tried to stay out of the way but his ass was hurting from the way he was pressed against the couch. Shelly flopped back against the armrest of the couch and sulked at Violet.

That's when the pinhead woman came up to Tate and offered him a folded note as well. Shelly really sulked then. She wanted a note. John didn't seem to notice any of it, being absorbed in his notepad. The skinny girl sitting in the chair near Violet looked perplexed by the goings-on.

Curious, Tate took the note. "Thanks," he smiled.

The former freak giggled and ran off, directly back to Dandy. Tate was instantly suspicious but he opened the note anyway. Inside, drawn in the same red crayon Dandy had used for Violet's note, was a crudely drawn cartoon boy labeled "YOU". The boy was crying and pressing his stick figure hands to a bottom that radiated cartoon heat rays.

Furious, Tate crumpled the paper violently, wishing it was Dandy's stupid smug smiling face he was crushing. The reaction only attracted the attention of the others. Violet folded her note and slipped it into the pocket of her sweater before turning a querying look on the young man beside her. Shelly was also looking at him with concern.

"What is it?" the blonde girl wanted to know. Like with Violet, she tried to take the note from him but he didn't let her take it either.

"It's none of your business," he said irritably. He was still glaring at Dandy, who was handing candies out to his hired help. "Who the fuck is he, anyway? King of the ward?"

Shelly folded her arms and sent him a hurt look.

"His name's Dandy," supplied Violet. She lit a cigarette then offered Tate the pack. He took it grudgingly and lit one.

Not one to be outdone, Shelly added: "He murdered some guy in a public bathroom. Stabbed him twenty times then went home and took a bubble bath."

Tate blinked out of his hatred and looked at her. "No shit?"

Everyone in the small group was looking at Shelly now. She perked up at being the center of attention. Over on the record player, the song started again.

"That's what the news said," the blonde girl affirmed.

"Where would you see the news?" Rosemary scoffed. "We can't get it in here."

Shelly eyed her. "I have my ways," she huffed.

The skinny girl gave her a flat look. "Sleeping with people."

The attitude made Shelly defensive. "Fuck you. You wish you could get the action I do."

Rosemary stared. Then she laughed. "You're demented. I wouldn't want to be a slut like you."

Shelly's eyes widened in a sudden fury and she scrambled up, ready to launch herself at the other girl. Tate's reactions were slow but he caught the back of the blonde's dress, buying Rosemary time to get to her feet and back up. Then Tate's grip slipped and Shelly was free.

She lunged at the skinny girl who scurried back—right into the record player. The song hiccupped and died. So did every other sound in the common room as all heads turned toward the player and the wide-eyed girl who bumped it. Rosemary backed away from the record player; no one had told her the rule about the music but she could sense she'd done something bad.

Violet knew the rule and hopped up, thinking to put the needle back on the record, but she hadn't even touched the arm when Sister Jude entered the hall, flanked by the two orderlies. The nun swept over the cold concrete floor in a direct line to where Violet and Rosemary stood frozen. All eyes were on them; the rest of the room seemed frozen.

Sister Jude went to the player and reset the arm, which had been knocked clear off the record. Soon the song was playing again but it didn't dispel the heavy sense of foreboding the posse brought with them.

"What's going on?"

The nun's question was simple, direct, and sharp as a cleaver. Several patients nearby turned away and were suddenly interested in other things. One went and hid behind the book cart.

When no one answered, Sister Jude's expression hardened. Her words were stone when she spoke. "The song always plays when the common area is open. Who. Stopped. It?"

Rosemary looked terrified. Violet looked from the nun to her and made a hasty decision. "I did."

Sister Jude's gaze homed in on the long-haired teen and a hint of a nasty smile touched her lips. "If it isn't our rogue candy striper." She stepped closer to the girl and looked down her nose at her. "Raising hell again. You just can't stay out of trouble." She nodded to the orderlies then and they grabbed the girl.

Tate tensed up but Shelly put a hand on his thigh and squeezed. For once she wasn't being fresh; he would only make things worse by interfering. So he had to sit there and watch as the men hauled her away to whatever punishment the head nun decided was fit justice.

—

Sister Jude's wooden desk bruised Violet's ribs from the force the orderly used to shove her against the edge. She tried to look around but the man pushed her back down.

"Stay put," the nun said as she opened her wardrobe of pain. "Unless you want Cecil to hold you down."

Violet stiffened but she didn't try to move. She tried to think of something to say to defend herself with but the medication slowed her thoughts under pressure. "It was an accident."

"So you say," said Sister Jude without interest.

She touched a rod then moved her hand to another, debating which to use. She settled on a glossy rattan cane with a curved handle. It was knobby and vicious-looking. She tested it lightly against the palm of her hand as she crossed the floor to her desk.

Violet eyed her warily. She knew the institution employed corporal punishment but hadn't been on the receiving end till now. "This should be illegal!"

"Kidnapping is illegal," Sister Jude parried, unruffled. She flipped up the skirt of Violet's dress and yanked her panties down, much to Violet's horror. "Interfering with the judicial system is illegal. Running away from home is illegal. Stealing cars is illegal." She leaned over the girl's back and got real close to her ear, almost pinning her against the desk. Her words were a serpentine whisper, dipped in sadistic satisfaction. "You're a wicked, sinful girl and it's time to pay for those sins."

She straightened then and brought the cane down hard on the girl's exposed bottom. A stripe of fire seared the teen's skin.

Violet had been swatted before as a small child, but nothing more than a light blow to correct severe misbehavior, like when she almost darted into the street. The way Sister Jude lit into her was stunning in its severity. After the fifth stroke, the younger woman tried to straighten to avoid the next blow, which was a mistake. The nun put a hand between her shoulder blades and shoved her back down, hard.

"Next time, it'll be Cecil holding you down," the Sister warned.

Violet felt the next strike of the cane all the way down to her bones. She squealed in pain and grabbed hold of the far edge of the desk to stop herself moving. The cane kept falling, laying agonizing welts down her ass. Hot tears dripped off her chin onto the desk.

"I'm sorry!" she bleated. The pain was excruciating. "I'm sorry, Sister! Please!"

Sister Jude ignored the begging and continued to stripe the unruly patient's backside, covering Violet's white flesh in dark red and purple stripes halfway down her thighs. Only then did she stop. Jude left the whimpering girl to compose herself, returning the cane to its place in the cabinet. Once the tool was shut away again she moved back over to where the girl was still sprawled on the desk in a broken heap. That pleased the nun but she didn't show it.

"Sister Mary Eunice will be in shortly to apply some salve," said Sister Jude crisply. "Cecil will take you back to your room when she's finished. I suggest you use this time to reflect on what you can do to better yourself, or else you and I will be seeing each other again, very soon."

—

The only good thing about the achy walk back to the ward was the care package waiting for Violet on her mattress. It wasn't her first care package from home but it stood out for two reasons. The first reason was because the box had some warm clothes: Wooly socks and two thick sweaters. There were also a couple of Readers Digests and a note from her mother; some pencils and a pad of paper were paired with a puzzle book.

The second reason was nestled in with the rest: A black cylinder that went with a note from her father. Unlike her mother's lengthy letter of encouragement (no matters of the outside were allowed in the correspondence yet), her dad's note simply said:

 _Found this while cleaning out my new office and thought of you._

 _It's called a zoetrope. I know you'll appreciate its anachronism._

 _Love,_

 _Dad_

The outside of the cylinder had slits in it and, looking inside the cylinder, Violet could see several small drawings. It took her a few moments to figure out how it worked but once she got it spinning, she could see the drawings animate into a silent cartoon. It was a simple design featuring a clown that bobbed up and down and juggled balls. Every so often he would toss a ball so high it would disappear from the animation before falling back into frame.

It was a silly diversion but fascinating all the same. Perhaps it wouldn't be so entertaining if she was sober but as it was, she spent nearly an hour watching the little clown bob up and down, playing with his balls. She even hummed a tune to go with the repetitive dance, something she'd heard on a merry-go-round at the fair last year. The thing was so loud, the song could be heard through the whole fairgrounds, even over the screams of people on the roller coaster. That's what she remembered most about the trip: The glittering lights, the merry-go-round music, and the screams.

The zoetrope slowed and stopped. The clown smiled out at her from the narrow slit in the cylinder. She noticed a small tear near his hand and realized the cartoon was printed on a strip of paper that was inserted in the cylinder. Curious, she picked at it and found it lifted out fairly easily once she loosened it.

Beneath the first strip was a second, yellowed with age. It featured another clown only this one was drawn darker than the first. His makeup was garish and his smile was a wicked leer. Under his feet was a letter. More curious, Violet spun the zoetrope again. The clown began to juggle, only instead of balls he was juggling the heads of dead men, their mouths agape and eyes rolled at weird angles. The pictures were so distracting, it took her a moment to notice the letters were changing beneath the grotesque juggler.

ITSALLINYOURHEADHAHAHA

She watched it spin till it stopped. The second cartoon was creepy. It wasn't just the art or the weird message. Something about it felt... wrong. She wondered who'd drawn it and what they were trying to convey when they did it. It didn't look like the same artist's work. The second cartoon was cruder, with bolder strokes. Had a patient made it, perhaps?

Violet tucked the first cartoon back into the antique toy and immediately felt better with the sinister clown covered. Then she chided herself for the reaction. She had no fear of clowns and the cartoon wasn't the worst thing she'd ever seen. She blamed the medication she was on for making her feel weird about it and put the zoetrope away in the nightstand she shared with Rosemary. Despite reassuring herself, she didn't want to leave it out where she could see it.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

"Sister Jude is on the warpath!" To quote Shelly from the show. You don't mess with the nun's music.

So yeah. This one got long. There's not a lot of folks reading this faithfully though. I figure if you are one of my followers and you've been with me this far, you probably like the occasional long-winded chapter.

Next chapter: Ghosts and art therapy.


	4. Chapter 4 - Soul Searching

It was an hour after breakfast. Many of the patients were at personal or occupational therapy. Those that weren't, had the luxury of choosing to either spend time in the common area, the hall, or their room. Patients were allowed to visit one another's rooms and Heather was doing just that, with Billie Dean.

Both were seated on the floor, facing each other, hands clasped. Billie Dean's eyes were closed in concentration. Heather watched her intently, waiting for some sign that what they were trying to do was working.

"Sara?" Billie Dean murmured in a tranquil tone. She didn't open her eyes. "Sara? Are you with us?"

For a moment it seemed as though nothing would happen but then Heather's hair stirred and lifted, tickled by a warm breeze from nowhere. There was a faint scent of peppermint that came with the ghostly wind.

Billie Dean smiled and opened her eyes to a dreamy half-mast. "Sara."

She was ready to say more but Heather stiffened abruptly and her eyes went wide as she stared off into nowhere. Her body straightened more, unnaturally so, and her hands gripped Billie Dean's so hard that the medium had to tear away from her to avoid injury.

"Heather!"

Billie Dean reached for her friend's shoulders but encountered a psychic force strong enough to propel her backward onto her ass. She winced and scrambled back over just as the girl collapsed. Billie Dean caught her awkwardly and pulled the younger woman close.

"Heather! Heather, sweetheart, say something!" Billie Dean rolled the girl over so she could see her face.

Heather's eyes fluttered open and it took her a moment to focus on Billie Dean. She looked dazed.

"Heather? Are you okay?"

The girl stirred and frowned. "I'm not Heather. I'm Sara."

"No. No, honey, you're not. You're Heather. Sara is a ghost."

Sara smiled with Heather's lips. "I am Sara. Heather is sleeping."

Billie Dean could see her then, like a double exposure on a photograph, overlapping Heather's form. She had to concentrate to see the girl, but she could see her. "Oh, Sara! You can't just—" She was hesitant to use the word 'possess'. "Borrow her body. You have to let her go."

Sara pulled away from the woman. "I will. Just... not yet."

Billie Dean looked worried. "Please. You'll get her in trouble." She didn't know what else to say, to reason with the ghost girl.

"I won't. I promise," Sara said, crossing her heart with a finger. "I just want to— to be alive. For just a little bit. She doesn't mind. She let me in." She lowered her chin then and her eyes got moist. "I'm not going to do anything. I just want to remember, for a little bit. It's so lonely where I was."

Billie Dean looked at her helplessly. There was nothing she could. She couldn't tell the staff. They'd think she had cracked completely. She couldn't help feeling for the ghost girl, too. So young to be trapped in such a horrible place. Her death must have been heartbreaking. "Just—Please just. Be careful. All right?"

Sara smiled. "I will." Then she touched Billie Dean's cheek lightly. "It's okay," she assured.

But Billie Dean knew it wasn't okay. It was very not okay.

—

Sara left Billie Dean's room in a daze. Just being solid was a euphoric feeling and Heather's body was under the influence of sedatives as well. The combination was intoxicating. The hall of the women's ward swayed gently to her perception and she had to keep a hand on the wall to steady herself as she walked.

The artificial lights flickered overhead and washed the hallway in faded blue. In the distance, she could hear someone screaming like they were being tortured. Further away: laughter; maniacal laughter that echoed through the ward. She saw nurses and nuns, orderlies and patients. The wan light cast sharp shadows on their faces but their eyes found her and she could feel the air stir when they passed and smell the scent of them.

Briarcliff was alive.

The asylum Sara had been forced to call home for so long was a nightmare. Dark and lonely, Sara rarely saw anyone in the wretched place. Weeks would stretch by without her seeing so much as an insect. The few sentient things she encountered most often were terrifying. The buildings, too, were horrible: Decay and entropy ruled the Deadlands. Sara had believed that the hospital had been abandoned by the living. It was obvious to her now that it hadn't been. The version of the hospital she'd been in for so long was hell. This, by comparison, was salvation.

Sara could feel heat from the radiator she passed. She could smell bleach and food. When she passed an old woman in a wheelchair, the old lady looked at her. The drooling patient saw her and she smiled. Sara smiled back, grateful to be spontaneously acknowledged. Mesmerized by her own corporealness, Sara went over to the old woman to lightly pet the snarled steel-gray curls that clung to her scalp.

The old woman cackled, amused by the girl's stupor. "I ain't a dog, silly girl!"

"Please forgive her," Billie Dean interceded, catching Heather's hand before she could touch the elderly patient again. "She's, uh. They drugged her."

"Story of my life," grunted the old woman.

The invalid patient didn't seem offended in the least. She'd been the target of much worse in Briarcliff. Still, Billie Dean thought it best to move her friend along, so she guided her with an arm around her shoulders toward the common room.

"You can't go around touching people," she insisted in as gentle a tone as she could. "You'll get in trouble. Weren't there rules when you were here?"

Sara blinked at her with big eyes. "I... don't know." She thought about it, one brow dipping down. When she tried to remember, the first thing that came to mind was her doll. Then thoughts of a scary doctor followed, making her nervous. She didn't want to think about him. Thinking about him might make him appear. "I don't remember. What are the rules?"

Since they were in the common room by then, Billie Dean motioned to the record player. "Never touch that." She clucked her tongue remembering poor Violet's recent encounter with the contraption. Then she ushered Heather to the nearest unoccupied couch. "Let's see. What else? Always do what the nuns and orderlies tell you."

Sara looked around the commons, amazed to see so many living people. "Were they always here?"

"What?"

"The people. There are so many!"

The psychic looked around. Less than half of the patients were in the commons at the moment. Many were still at various forms of therapy. "You don't see them normally?"

Sara shook her head. "The asylum's usually empty. Dead. Like me."

She smiled then, a look that suited Heather's pretty face nicely. Billie Dean hadn't seen the young woman smile much and certainly not that easily.

"We'll find a way to free you," Billie Dean promised, giving Heather's hand a squeeze.

Sara smiled bigger. "I am free."

"You—you can't stay... like this," the older woman faltered. "Heather—"

"Heather likes me," the girl said stubbornly. She wasn't smiling anymore. "Don't you like me?"

Billie Dean smiled but it was a frail, trembly expression. "Of course I do! That's why I'm helping you." She hugged her then and pet her hair until she felt the girl relax in her embrace.

She was worried for her friend. What if Sara wouldn't let go? She wondered if she should talk to the Monsignor. Of anyone in Briarcliff, her cousin would be most likely to understand. But would he help her? Could he?

...

Tate stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table before him. It was his first day of art therapy and he'd been glad, at first, to get the opportunity to do something other than sitting around. Granted, there was a small art corner in the common area but the supplies were awful and often being bogarted by individuals who didn't like to share.

But now Tate felt like he was in school. He wasn't sure what he had expected art therapy to be when Dr. Thredson mentioned it, but perhaps something to do with clay or paint. What he had, instead, were colored pencils and a directive to 'draw what you feel'.

He stole a covert look around the room. The other patients were all working. One old man with Turrets' talked to himself but even he was drawing. At the table beside Tate, Violet was drawing a picture of what looked like herself in a field.

Noticing his attention, she smiled. "I'm making you and me, having a picnic in a field. I figure if I draw something boring and normal, whoever looks at these things will know I'm not crazy."

Tate's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I doubt they'll be that easy to convince but... probably can't hurt."

He looked back to his blank sheet. Though he appreciated art, he wasn't much of an artist himself. He thought about what might be boring and normal but nothing came to mind that he wanted to draw. Finally he gathered a few blues and grays and started to sketch.

Nearly an hour later, when the nurse overseeing the therapy said it was time to put away the supplies, Tate was satisfied with his picture. He'd drawn a bluebird, perched on a branch. It was fluffy with cold, inspired by the freezing cold temperatures in the cells lately. He'd heard rumor someone had actually frozen to death overnight.

The bird wasn't a masterpiece: The eye was too big and the nearest foot was stick-like but in all he was pleased with his work. The feathers were especially nice; they were what he spent the most time on. He'd painstakingly gone over each in a variety of hues. The richness of color added striking dimension to the otherwise sub-par bird.

He added it to the pile of artwork in the bin near the front of the room and paused to admire Violet's when she put it on top of his. Like his, her picture wasn't flawless, but he thought it was beautiful. There they were, sitting on a pleasant hill, enjoying a picnic among the flowers. Violet's detail had gone into the poses of the people and the cloudy sky behind them. The clouds were odd but Tate couldn't quite put his finger on why. Something about them, though, kept drawing his eye. Before he could sort it out, another patient dropped her art on top of Violet's piece.

"Are you ready?" Violet asked, drawing his attention away from the papers.

Her smile drew one from him. "Yeah."

They left the room with the slow trickle of patients that were heading back to the ward.

—

"How long has it been?" Tate asked as he and Violet wandered the halls together. It wasn't stimulating scenery but it was better than having to listen to the Singing Nun again.

"Since our famous run for the border?" she smiled crookedly. "Six weeks? I think." She shrugged. "It's hard to keep track. It's close to that though. We should ask somebody..."

Tate shook his head and sucked on the cigarette they were sharing. "Not right now." He was enjoying his 'alone time' with Violet. He offered her the cigarette.

"Where did they take you?" she asked, taking it and sucking on the filter.

It was Tate's turn to shrug. "Dr. Heath's ward. It's this tripped out underground lair. I think he has three or four patients there still. I don't know who." He looked at her sidelong then. "They got you on meds?"

She made a face and nodded, then handed him the cigarette. "I don't want to take the shit but it's this foul liquid. I can't keep it in my mouth long enough to spit it out someplace."

Tate smoked and tried to think. What had he done with the gross liquid? He couldn't remember. Trying to conjured up a vague impression of Patrick and nothing more. "If it was pills I could help you. I can't even help me right now. They're giving me shots."

"Ohh," Violet expressed sympathetically. "That's a drag." Then she smiled that crooked smile that made her cheek dimple. "I guess we're both stuck being high."

"Could be worse," said Tate. He took a last hit from the cigarette then smushed the butt in one of the many ashtrays the facility had lining the halls. "We could be getting that stuff that makes people make that funny face."

"Still. I'd rather not be on anything at all."

"Yeah. " The blond boy chewed on his lower lip while he percolated a thought. "Which doctor are you seeing?"

"Doctor... um." Violet squinted to remember. "Doctor Thredson."

"I got him too," Tate said, pleased to share something else in common with the girl. "Maybe you could talk to him about your medicine. He's been saying if I do, um, you know. Whatever I'm supposed to? He said he'd take me off the shots."

Violet's brows went up as she considered that. "Yeah, okay. I'll talk to him about it next time I see him. I don't think I'm seeing him for another two weeks though."

"Two weeks?"

She nodded and some of her lank hair fell over her face. She tucked the lackluster lock behind an ear. "Yeah. Why?"

"I guess I thought everybody had to see the shrink weekly," said Tate. "I wonder if it's just me."

"It's overcrowding," Violet theorized. She saw Tate's puzzled look and expanded on that explanation. "When my dad first started working the institutions, he had a patient caseload of like... six patients. He saw them every other day. When I started working here as a candy striper, he had so many patients, he could only see most of them once a week. Only the, uh, the really tricky cases got, um." She realized she might be describing Tate and it made her careful with her words. "Basically only the important cases got the attention they really needed." She smiled and her dimple appeared. "I guess they don't think I'm important enough."

They passed several other patients as they meandered. Many of the ones in the hall were either slumped against the walls—standing or sitting—or they were wandering aimlessly, often talking to themselves. Some ranted. One old lady they passed was naked. Her scrawny body sagged in many places and was bruised in many more. She wasn't doing anything; just standing there in the hall, staring off into space, oblivious to her nudity or the cold air.

"This place does seem pretty crowded," Tate observed. The drugs were slowing his thoughts but he could still count. "When they brought me back from Heath's ward, some other guy was in my room. They moved him but..." He shrugged and couldn't remember if he'd told Violet about the altercation with Dandy over the room. He had a sneaking suspicion he had, so he kept the details minimal and changed the subject. "I heard some of the orderlies are guys on a prison work release program."

Violet's eyes got wide. "I heard that too! Some of them _look_ like prisoners. You know?"

Tate nodded grimly. "Yeah. Trust me, I know. I'm pretty sure Max is one."

"No," said Violet. She picked at a hangnail. "He's not. Jonas and Allain are."

"How do you know?" Tate wasn't challenging her knowledge. He was mystified that she knew so much.

She shrugged. "People talk. It's crazy what they'll say right in front of you."

Tate nodded, remembering his own experiences. "Yeah. It's like you're not even there."

"You're not a person. You're a non-person."

That got a chuckle from him. "Yeah. I don't think anybody here actually thinks of us as people. Except maybe Doctor Thredson."

"My dad," Violet interjected. "Well. He's over in the kids' ward now but that's still here in Briarcliff." She brightened then. "Oh, hey. He sent me something. Want to see it?"

"Sure," Tate agreed. He didn't care what it was. If Violet thought it was share-worthy, he was interested.

"Come on," she said, changing direction. "It's in my room. I'll have to go get it.

—

Tate had to wait for her outside the women's ward since no guys were allowed in there. He found it funny that girls could come to his side of the hospital but boys weren't let the same permission. Why not a single rule for all? It was too arbitrary and silly, to his way of thinking. A guy was just as likely to assault a woman over in the men's ward as he was to do it in the women's ward. It couldn't be about nudity either: Lots of patients in Briarcliff wandered around without a stitch on, regardless of the temperature.

Tate got nowhere on his thought train and was grateful to hop off of it when he saw Violet coming out of the women's hall. She had a black roundish object in her hands and she smiled at him. They headed into the open area where the hall to the wards intersected with the one that led to the common room. She thought about going there but didn't want to share her treasure with the whole room so she moved to a spot by the wall and sat down.

Settling beside her, Tate looked at what she held, with open curiosity. "What is it?"

"It's a zoetrope," she said and lifted it up by its handle so he could see it better. "You look through the side and spin it. When you spin it, the picture inside moves. See?"

She gave it a spin then let him hold it. He took the peg handle and held the thing up so he could see through the slit side as it went around. The merry little clown bobbed up and down and juggled his balls, to Tate's delight.

"I've heard of these!" he said, giving it another spin to keep the clown dancing. "They used to be, like. Television for people before electricity."

He watched the clown bob and gave the cylinder another spin to make him move even faster. Faster and faster the jester bounced till it really looked like he was juggling the balls and jumping up and down like a maniac. The little man's face blurred and distorted with the speed he was giving it, till it almost looked like he was snarling.

Sharp pain sliced through Tate's index finger when he gave the zoetrope another spin and he dropped the toy in surprise. His left finger was bleeding. Impulsively he stuck the digit in his mouth but Violet tugged it right back out again so she could assess the damage.

It wasn't a deep cut but it was a good inch long, right across the tip. "Wrap it in your shirt and put pressure on it," she said, drawing on what limited nursing skills she knew. "Don't suck on it. That's gross."

He did what she said because it made sense. She picked up the fallen zoetrope and he looked sheepish. "Sorry I dropped it," he said. "I guess it had a sharp edge or something. Is it broken?"

Violet gave it cursory examination. The outer cartoon had fallen out, exposing the darker one underneath. She quickly put the happier one back in. She didn't want Tate to see the other one, though she wasn't sure why. "Nothing broken," she smiled. Then she turned it over some more and her expression shifted to puzzlement. "I can't figure out how you cut yourself though. There's nothing sharp. No breaks or anything."

He looked down at the hand he had swaddled in his shirt. "Maybe I pinched it?"

"Maybe," she agreed, willing to leave it at that. But she knew there was nothing on the toy that could pinch like that. "Hey. I was thinking maybe we could make some new cartoon strips for it. You know? Whatever we feel like."

He perked up, liking the idea. "Let's go do that now!"

She smiled, finding his child-like enthusiasm a much-needed bright spot in the dark asylum. The ruddy scar along his hairline made him look every bit the mental patient he was but she still couldn't see him as a killer. Maybe she was as crazy as the doctors said, but it was much more convenient to blame the tumor for the lives he'd taken. The boy who led her to the art table in the commons wasn't like the man who'd terrorized Heather. Despite the heinousness of his crimes, Tate managed to come off as naively innocent. So much so, she hated seeing him in a place like this. He wasn't safe here. Not with people like Max and Sister Jude in charge.

She joined him at the table and they both set to work on short strips for the zoetrope. She smiled and laughed with him, but she was distracted. Her initial plan to escape the hospital had failed largely because Tate's head had hurt so badly. He'd had the surgery now and was seeming much improved, though the drugs made it hard to tell just how improved. Still, they stood a much better chance now... if she could just find a way out.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm beginning to realize I made a mistake in trying to make each episode only 6 chapters instead of 7, like I did with my last AHS season. I'm just getting longer chapters. These characters are major stage-hogs. I'm just gonna accept it and let it roll.

That said, next chapter we'll see what Dr. Thredson's been up to. He has a life outside the confines of his office, after all. A very messed up, stressful, bizarre life.


	5. Chapter 5 - Bad Medicine

...

 **October 30**

When Dr. Thredson agreed to help Dr. Haddonfield with the tube feeding procedure, he had no idea how barbaric it would be.

It all started when Dermont, a patient in his late 50's, wouldn't eat his lunch. The patient had a long history of eating issues on record. Despite being 5'10, he was barely 100 pounds. Every day the staff would ask him to feed himself and every day he would refuse. His was a passive refusal: He didn't fight. He just wouldn't eat.

Every three days, the staff had to resort to tube feeding in order to keep him alive. Normally there were enough orderlies and doctors on hand to manage but with the staff cuts, instead of having three doctors and four orderlies present, they had to manage with two doctors and two orderlies.

They strapped Dermont to a table in one of the exam rooms. That's where the medical side began to fall apart. Dr. Haddonfield wasn't a fussy man. He didn't wash his hands before the procedure. He just grabbed the tubing from the prep tray bare-handed. There was a jar of tar-like medical lube on hand but when the doctor dipped the end of the tube into it, it came up with barely a dab. He peered into the container and sighed, then dropped it and lit a cigarette.

"Out of lube," he said. He was a short man with a thick Ukranian accent. "Find me some more."

Dr. Thredson looked in the medical cooler but there was none there. A search of the cabinets turned up nothing usable. "There is none."

"Find me something," the doctor grunted around the cigarette between his lips. He tried the jar again but came up with the same results as before. "Vaseline. KY. Butter. Something. Is there some antibiotic ointment in the drawer there?"

Thredson dug around in the drawer next to the sink and found a half-flattened tube of ointment. It was hardly ideal but Dr. Haddonfield took it and smeared a blob of the petroleum-based stuff on the end of the dark rubber hose. Then he started shoving it up Leroy's nose. The man winced frightfully but didn't try to resist. He just scrunched his eyes shut and lay there like a dead man as the doctor shoved more and more tube down his throat through his nostril.

"Swallow it," the guy holding Dermont's left ankle said to him. "Swallow it."

"Another patient disappeared from the ward yesterday," Oliver said, trying for normal though he couldn't tear his eyes off the patient. The restrained man did his best to swallow the tube that was grating its way down his esophagus. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Dr. Haddonfield pushed the tube deeper down, almost missing the stop mark. "Patients do not disappear. They are somewhere. Someone knows where they are." He waved his hand in the general direction of the two soup-sized paper cups that were on the counter.

Thredson handed him the one filled with liquid meal substitute and the senior doctor tipped it into the cone-shaped funnel on the end of the tube. Still, the doctor didn't remove the cigarette from his mouth. Oliver watched the long ash on the end as it hovered precariously over the food replacement the patient was about to receive.

"We should put a guard in the halls of the ward," Dr. Thredson said.

"We don't have the people to guard this place like a prison," said Haddonfield. He didn't sound at all concerned. He lifted the funnel high so the liquid food would reach the patient.

"Look at him go," said the talkative orderly, who didn't seem to care that no one was paying attention to him. "You can tell he's done this before."

Dr. Thredson sighed. "What else can we do? They don't even have a single suspect."

"Maybe it's that new guy. What's his name? Freeman?" Dr. Haddonfield waved his hand at the other cup, taking it when Oliver passed it to him. The ash finally fell off his cigarette, narrowly missing the cup. He dumped the water from it into the funnel. "Isn't he the lobotomy fellow?"

Thredson shook his head. "I'm not sure. I haven't heard much about him. Only that he's taken Dr. Harmon's old cases now that he's been transferred."

Dr. Haddonfield grunted around the cigarette, blinking rapidly as the smoke got in his eyes. "I heard he performed thirty lobotomies in one day."

"Thirty?" blurted the orderly holding Dermont's leg. "He must've been doing them like an assembly line!"

Thredson grimaced. "Seems an unusually high number of patients to need that procedure all at once."

Dr. Haddonfield dropped the empty cup on the floor and started hauling the tubing out of the patient's nose. Dermont winced but otherwise didn't react.

"Mark my words, it's him," said Haddonfield. He dropped the tubing in the nearby sink and plucked the cigarette butt from his lips. "Take him back to his room."

The orderlies escorted the shaky patient out of the room while a nun scurried around, cleaning up.

Dr. Haddonfield dropped the cigarette and put it out with the heel of his shoe. Then he patted his middle and grinned at his colleague. "I feel like lunch myself, now. What about you?"

—

Oliver politely declined lunch with Dr. Haddonfield. The procedure had done nothing for his appetite and he had work to do. After washing up he headed up the spiral staircase and down the hall to his sparse office. He let himself inside and went over to the radiator. The thin windows didn't do much to keep out the cold and the old heater was resistant to working. The doctor turned the valve knob and was rewarded a faint hiss of steam.

"Doctor Thredson?"

He turned and saw Patrick in the doorway. The orderly's white uniform was damp on the front. "Yes?" said Thredson, brows high.

The taller man came all the way into the room. "Rosemary Dawson had another breakdown. She was in hydrotherapy and forgot where she was. Got hysterical. We had to sedate her. She's in solitary number two right now."

Oliver sighed. "That's unfortunate." He rubbed his chin. "We'll start electroshock this week. I'll put the order in."

He went over to his desk and Patrick followed, watching as the doctor dug through the file drawer. "Will that help?"

Thredson tipped his head in an approximation of a shrug. "It's the best chance she's got. Traditional methods have failed. Entirely."

Patrick couldn't argue that. "I think it's amazing that you want to help people like her."

"Someone should. It's not her fault she is the way she is," said the doctor. He found the form he was looking for and grabbed a pen to fill it out. "I grew up seeing crazy homeless people beating each other up over arguments with imaginary friends, right outside my front door. People on the street would just walk by, literally looking the other way, pretending not to see it because it was too much trouble— too much risk—to get involved. To even call the authorities."

He shook his head and signed the form at the bottom. Then he picked it up and turned to hand it off to Patrick and was surprised to find the other man standing right next to him. Looking up, he could see open interest in the orderly's expression. It gave the doctor am intense thrill that was almost immediately overshadowed by fear and self-doubt. Repression.

"Here," he said and shoved the paper into Patrick's hand.

That should have been the signal for the orderly to leave but he didn't. He maintained that unprofessionally close distance and smiled.

"Do you want to grab a cup of coffee after shift sometime?" Pat offered. It was an innocent enough statement on the surface but the sexual tension underlying the words was clear. Coffee was a euphemism.

Oliver felt dizzy from the way his heart was racing, flooding his brain with desire and fear. He took a step back and ducked behind his desk. "I try not to mix work life with social," he said gruffly, without looking at the other man. He could feel the heat in his face; he was sure it could be seen.

Patrick's shoulders dropped. "Yeah. Okay. I understand," he said, even though he didn't really. He knew he'd read the signals right. "But if you change your mind..." He flashed a charming smile but the doctor didn't look up. So he left.

Once the orderly was gone, Thredson exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath till then. He braced his head with one hand and let his defenses down for just a few seconds while he processed what just happened. Patrick's offer was far more tempting than he wanted to admit and that made him want to bury the whole experience, not examine it. He wanted to deny it wholesale.

And there was only one way to do that.

—

It was another rainy October night when Oliver hit the road in his old Chrysler. The streets were shiny black in the glare from his headlights. Iggy Pop played on the radio, a dreamy song Thredson could hardly hear the lyrics to. His mind wasn't on the song anyway. His thoughts were already at his destination.

The house was dark when he passed by it. Most of the houses on the suburban back street were dark as well; it was late. The only sounds were that of rain pattering and the occasional muted roll of thunder. Oliver drove past the house and parked at the end of the street, around the corner next to the fence of the last house on the left.

He sat there in the still car, listening to the rain on the roof for a few moments, preparing himself mentally. Then he tugged on a pair of leather gloves. He took his most recent flesh mask from the glove compartment and put it on. It felt cool at first but warmed quickly, giving him a hint of the sexual thrill he'd felt when Patrick was hitting on him. He dropped his keys in the pocket of his coat along with a bit of broken ceramic from an old sparkplug and a pair of wire snippers. His other pocket held two syringes and a scalpel. Then he got out of the car.

The walk back to the house was an uneventful one and soon Oliver found himself circling the building, heading toward the side. He found the wiring to the house. He only needed to cut the phone line but the storm made it inconvenient to spend the time searching for it so he just cut all of them.

Next he found a window there that was low enough to reach and, after a quick look around, struck the glass with the bit of ceramic. The glass cracked. He waited a moment then, when no lights came on, he used his elbow to nudge the broken glass inward. It flexed, then gave, crumbling into hundreds of glittering chunks and shards. He vaulted up through the frame and slipped into the dark house.

—

Constance stirred and opened her eyes to bright light. She felt hungover. Worse than hungover; hangovers she was used to. This was a dizzy, queasy, mind-slowing feeling. It felt like things were moving in slow motion. She squinted against the light and tried to lift an arm to shield her eyes but she couldn't move it.

Turning her attention that way, she saw her wrist was tied to an unfamiliar bedpost, secured with what looked like a medical restraints. Her other arm and both legs were likewise bound. Panic seized her and the woman began to yank furiously at her bonds.

"Oh, don't do that," Dr. Thredson said in his calm therapist's voice. He was over at a counter that was tucked half behind a whole bunch of medical equipment, doing something she couldn't see. He left what he was doing and came over to the bedside. Fortunately for her, he had removed the gruesome human mask already.

"W—What's going on?" she stammered, still too drugged to gather her wits.

"You're in the hospital," Oliver lied. The room was designed and furnished in a way that easily supported the lie. "I'm afraid you've had a breakdown, Mrs. Langdon. May I call you Constance?"

Though he was already quite familiar with her, he was still putting her through the formalities he would with any of his patients. His behavior only further confused the woman, who nodded vaguely. She blinked and rolled her eyes, struggling against the effects of the drug he'd injected her with back at her house while she was sleeping.

"Breakdown?" She tried to recall what she could remember last. Getting ready for bed. "I haven't had a breakdown."

He thought about forcing the lie but she was too clever. It would take more work to keep up the ruse than it was worth to him. What she believed about her situation didn't matter. He dragged a stool over to the foot of the bed and straddled it, then folded his arms over the metal bed frame. The position put him right between her legs, though she was modestly covered by a blanket he'd tucked over her.

"You're right," Oliver admitted. "This isn't the hospital. You're in my basement and I should tell you that I've soundproofed it. There's no point in screaming. No one will hear you."

She stared at him, having trouble processing what he just said. Was he joking? But there was nothing in his expression that hinted at that. His words had the cold ring of truth to them. "Why..?"

"Am I doing this?" he supplied helpfully. He knew how potent the drugs were that he gave her. "Many reasons, few of which I think you'd understand or appreciate." He got up then and moved to the head of the bed, where he could see the nuances of her expressions better.

His captive's blonde hair was in disarray, fallen from the high bouffant she favored during the day. He brushed a stray lock away from her forehead and smiled when she stopped struggling. She turned her head away, trying to avoid his touch. The way he was speaking and her vulnerable state made her leery. Only he didn't let her avoid him. When she turned away, he caught her chin with his hand and gently turned her face back toward him. He held her like that so he could make eye contact with her. He noticed she had the same dark eyes Tate did.

"The Catholics believe prostitution damages a person's soul," said Thredson. "Turns them into an instrument of sexual pleasure."

He let his hand fall to her shoulder where he traced the curve of her collarbone down to where the blanket covered her. Then he gently tugged the blanket down, exposing her bare breasts. He had taken the liberty of parting her from her clothes when he'd tied her to the bed.

"I'm not a whore," Constance growled. She was terrified but she wasn't going to give the mad doctor the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to hysterics.

Oliver smiled a thin smile. "That's not what your son says. You've had many lovers in his lifetime, haven't you, Constance?" His hand settled over her nearest breast, cupping it.

A flicker of outrage crossed her face but the restraints held her fast when she tensed against them. "That's none of your business!"

The doctor's thick brows went up. "Isn't it? You don't think exposing your son to your intimate relationships could have an impact on him?"

His words slogged through the drug haze and brought a gnawing feeling of dread to her. What had Tate told this man? "Lies," she mumbled. Then, stronger: "Whatever my son told you... He's lying. He was always jealous. So jealous. He was so young when his father left us—"

Thredson pulled his hand away from her then, suddenly irritated. "A mother is supposed to be pure!" He stepped away then, needing to forcibly restrain his emotions. He reminded himself that he was in control and when he felt that way again, he came back to the bedside. He braced his palms on the mattress and leaned over the bound woman. "You're sick, Constance. You've infected your son and I can't cure him until I cure you."

She had no idea what he meant by that but the way he said it scared the hell out of her. "Please," she said, trying to turn on her most winning smile. Her chin trembled too much for her to hide the terror. Fear put a manic light in her eyes. "I have—I have money. I can get you—"

He silenced her by gently placing a hand over her mouth. She took the hint and stopped talking. "I don't want your money, Constance." He moved his hand and the look she gave him shot straight to his heart. She was hanging on his next words and the devoted attention was a drug for him. "I want to help you."

He pushed the blanket aside then, exposing her completely. Though she was an older woman she still had an amazing body. He could understand how she could command so many lovers, with a body like that. He ran a hand down her middle, to her belly. "Why do you do it? Why do you have so many lovers, if not for the money?"

She stared at him, finally accepting the fact that she was at the mercy of a madman. "I enjoy the company of men," she said, words clipped. "Usually."

Oliver felt his nerves chafe at the barb, but only briefly. He could see some of the same behavior patterns emerging in Constance that he'd seen in Tate. He wondered why he hadn't thought sooner to trace things back to the source.

"A patient's relationship with his therapist is a template for the patient's relationships with other people," he murmured. "The very first thing your son spoke with me about was sex. Why do you think that is?" He let his hand slide down between her thighs, to help her arrive at the correct answer.

Constance stiffened and her eyes rounded in reaction to the invasion. "Get your hands off of me!" She tried again to tear free from the bed frame but the restraints held her without harm to her. Eventually she tired of the fight and went limp, sobbing.

"Have you ever touched your son?" the doctor asked. He kept his hand over her privates.

"NO!"

The rage that came with that answer was interesting. Oliver did some quick mental arithmetic. "But you've thought about it."

"No!" Constance screeched and tried to kick him. Her leg was held fast but she felt better for the effort.

Thredson pressed his lips together in a grim line of determination. He leaned in real close and when he spoke next, his words were an intense whisper. "I can see we have a _lot_ of work to do here."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm neck-deep in back-to-back convention weekends. I've been hobknobbing with awesome authors and publishers. While this has been great for my networking, I've had no time for actual writing. Funny that. On the bright side, this whole episode is already finished and I got it edited before things got crazy. But not before Thredson got crazy. That last bit wasn't in my plot outline. Don't know what'll happen with that because of it. Guess we'll find out together!

Next chapter's the last for this episode. Iiiiit's **Halloween**!


	6. Chapter 6 - All Hallows Eve

Tate wanted to scream. He very badly wanted to express the frustration he felt on waking up back in Dr. Heath's ward but his mouth was so stuffed full of tubes, the only sound that could escape was a strangled gurgle. He rolled his eyes, taking in the dimly-lit hospital room with growing dismay.

He had no idea what time or day it was. To judge from the lighting, it wasn't even day, but night time. The ward was quiet; the only sounds were those of the medical machinery stationed around his bed and elsewhere in the tunnel-like hall beyond his room.

Disliking the way the tubes were stretching his throat, Tate decided to do something about them. Except his arms didn't respond when he called on them. Looking to his right, he expected to see his wrist locked in the padded leather cuffs that were bolted to the bed's sides, but instead of a restrained arm he saw a bandaged stump. The arm was gone just below the shoulder. A wild look to the other side found his left arm in the same condition.

With sickening horror he realized his legs, too, were gone. All that remained were blocky stumps connected to his hipbones, outlined sharply where the blanket suddenly went flat on the mattress. Again he tried to scream but the tubes kept the sound trapped inside his throat. His heart monitor beeped furiously, setting off the coding alarm, which screeched so loudly it hurt his ears.

Dr. Heath came in and, after giving his patient a quick look, turned off the alarm. He picked up Tate's chart and wrote on it. "There, there," he soothed, as though talking to a fussy child. "Did you have a nightmare? That's quite common following major surgery. Don't worry. It will pass."

Tate looked up at him in desperation and tried to ask about his arms and legs, but those damned tubes wouldn't let him. The doctor put his chart back and leaned over his incapacitated patient.

"I'm sure you're concerned about your arms and legs, but it's all for the better. You'll never run away again," the surgeon said pleasantly. "And you'll never hurt anyone again. It's the next best thing to a cure. You'll have to stay here in the ward with my other Specials but I know you don't mind. After all, you've always been special. Haven't you, Tate?"

The teen struggled as best he could, wiggling so violently that he slumped over. Dr. Heath gave him a disapproving look and repositioned him. Tate thrashed more, almost rolling right off the bed. One of the tubes pulled free and another alarm went off.

Dr. Heath grabbed him and roughly tossed him back onto the hospital bed. "It looks like you need another visit with Sister Jude's cane."

Tate screamed then; really screamed—loud enough to wake most of the patients in the men's ward. He bolted up out of his cot, needing to feel his legs under him. He hugged himself with his arms and sobbed in relief that everything was where it should be. It was all just a bad dream.

The door to his cell squealed open and orderlies Carl and Allain burst in. In his hysteria, Tate was sure they were there to take his legs off. He did his best to fight them but they were stronger than he was and they outnumbered him. They wrestled him back into bed and slapped the leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Allain jabbed him in the thigh with a needle full of fast-acting medication that made him feel drunk.

As the drug flooded his system, Tate settled down. The door to his room squealed open and shut again as the orderlies left him. He had to spend the rest of the night in restraints but he didn't care. He had arms and legs to restrain, and that made everything better.

...

 **October 31 - Halloween**

Violet had been off the laudanum for over three weeks but was missing its calming effects that night. She was getting ready for the big show in a makeshift 'green room' the staff had temporarily converted from a storage room. Sister Mary Eunice was helping her with her hair, leaving Violet little to do in the meantime but fret.

It started when she found out that morning that Tate was in restraints. Due to being in personal therapy, she hadn't been able to visit him till after lunch, and he was still bound to his bed in his room then. She didn't understand why he was being restrained since he was just sleeping when she visited his room. She didn't have time to ask either as she had to go get ready for the evening's performance. So she'd just kissed him and told him she would be thinking of him while she sang.

It wouldn't be the same, though.

Not having him there in the audience would make the show less fun. She had wanted to sing her song to him; not to the whole room. Sure, she could imagine him while she was doing it, but it wouldn't help her perform better.

"There we are," said the nun and she patted Violet's hair. She leaned down so she could see the girl's face in the small mirror. "Don't you look pretty!"

Violet looked at herself in the reflection. Sister Mary Eunice had done her hair in pigtails. Her hair was so long that it streamed over her shoulders in twin ribbons. She'd been permitted some red lipstick and black eyeliner that made her whole face look stark and haunted, like an old China doll. Not the look she'd wanted—she'd been going for glamorous—but she didn't know squat about applying makeup.

The lights flickered briefly, causing several of the performers to pause in their preparations. Was it an electroshock session? Or was it the worsening storm outside that caused the disruption? Either one was a disturbing notion for the unhinged mind. Thunder and the sound of rain added aural stimulation to a group already excited for the unprecedented performance, making the audience restless.

"All right, people!" Dandy's voice cut through the tension as he buzzed through the room. He was dressed in a pale cream colored director's outfit, with a fancy shirt and knickers: Gifts from his guilt-plagued mother. "It's almost show time!"

His mother had provided many of the clothes Briarcliff's performers were using for costumes, even Violet's red dress. Mrs. Mott had spared no expense on Dandy's outfit and with his hair slicked back he barely even looked like an inmate. He saw Violet and lit up in a smile. The wounds on his face had healed but left scars that couldn't be easily hidden. So instead he'd painted a bright red clown's smile over them that put Violet in mind of the Nutcracker Prince.

"You look magnificent!" he extolled, coming directly over to her. He took her hands in his and drew her up from the stool she'd been sitting on. Mary Eunice faded back and went to see if anyone else needed her help.

"Are you excited?" Dandy asked with a big smile that said he sure was.

Violet smiled back, finding his enthusiasm amusing if not infectious. "Yeah. I just wish Tate was going to be there."

Dandy's smile dimmed a notch. "You can tell him all about it afterward." He didn't like having to be diplomatic but he wasn't going to ruffle his star's feathers right before the Big Night. "Right now, you should focus on how much everyone out there will love you. Because you're going to be amazing!"

She lowered her chin, spurred to modesty by the unabashed praise. Her response was cut off when he kissed her. It was just a quick peck, so fast that the staff didn't even see. Then he was dimpling his charming smile at her.

"Break a leg," he said, his dark eyes sparkling with pride. Then he was off and moving again, coaching the next patient he came to.

Slightly stunned by the kiss, Violet stared after him. They had grown close over the past month of rehearsals: He had told her a lot about his sheltered life of luxury and he'd been a sympathetic ear to her tales of growing up a shrink's daughter. They'd shared plenty of strange stories; they'd had a few laughs and even a couple of cries. But she'd never thought about the dark-haired boy as more than a friend.

She watched him as he moved around the room, interacting with the various participants and staff members. Suddenly all the little clashes between the two young men made a lot more sense. She caught a smile trying to slip out and she turned away just in case he happened to look her way. She wanted to tell him she wasn't interested but the idea of hurting him didn't sit well with her. In fact, if she wasn't already in a thing with Tate...

Violet shook her head and her pigtails tossed with the motion. This was no time to be thinking about boys—any boys. She needed to focus on keeping the words of her song straight. She knew the lyrics by heart and the doctor had reduced the amount of medication she was getting, but she'd forgotten some of the words during rehearsal and didn't want to do it again in front of an audience. They might crazy but she still wanted to put on a good show for them. She couldn't do that if she was distracted by boys.

—

The makeshift auditorium bustled with life as the staff worked to get the patients seated and keep them there. Outside, the winter storm was raging full force, adding the rattle of heavy rain to the din. Now and then the lights flickered when lightning struck. Sister Agnes plucked out an old-timey tune on the piano in an attempt to provide some diversion but the thin notes were mostly lost in the noise from the audience. Many were coughing, having taken ill when the weather changed, but most were just too excited to be silent. They talked and whooped and sang and counted and giggled and shouted out things that caught their attention.

When everyone was seated and as controlled as they were going to get, Max sent the signal to Sister Mary Eunice, who scrambled back to the Green Room. She was breathless with excitement when she burst into the staging area.

"It's time!" she gasped, one hand flying to her throat like it could still her racing heart.

—

Though the crowd had been noisy, when the house lights went down and the ghost lights lining the stage popped on, a hush came over the vaulted room. Sister Agnes started plinking out the first notes of the opening number, joined awkwardly by two other patients: Joe on clarinet and old Mutt using a battered snare drum and high hat Sister Jude had scrounged up from the donation center.

Onstage, costumed performers came out from behind the curtain with various props and set pieces. Each person performed a simple set of steps before placing the item they carried. It was supposed to be in time to the beat but the patients did the best they could. Over the tinny notes of the music, the small choir sang an abridged version of "Anything Goes".

As the last pieces of the stage were placed, Dandy came out in his snowy director's outfit, taking the lead on final verses of the song.

 _Just think of those shocks you've got_

 _And those knocks you've got_

 _And those blues you've got_

 _From that news you've got_

 _And those pains you've got_

 _If any brains you've got_

 _From those little radios._

 _So Missus R., with all her trimmin's,_

 _Can broadcast a bed from Simmons_

 _'Cause Franklin knows_

 _Anything goes._

There was a moment of dead silence that followed the last notes of the song, then the auditorium broke out in raucous applause and whistles. It was the most exciting thing the patients at Briarcliff had seen within the cold walls.

—

As the show inside the asylum's brick walls swung into high gear, the storm outside was gathering strength as well. The frigid autumn wind tore through the trees, stripping leaves from branches. Chain lightning rippled through the sky, briefly illuminating the monstrous thunderheads in purple, white and blue. Thunder boomed like cannon fire. Over it all, the rain hissed, pouring down in heavy sheets flecked with sleet.

The violent storm wasn't lost on the patients. Despite the entertainment onstage, many were distracted by the noise overhead. Some were scared of it, not understanding the source, either due to mental issues or the medication they were on. The orderlies had their hands full keeping them in their seats. Quiet wasn't possible.

Violet found it all very distracting as she was trying to perform "I Want to be Loved By You". A loud crack of thunder startled her, making her jump and causing her to forget where she was in the song. She got midway through the next verse before she realized she'd already sang it but she just kept going and hoped the nun would keep up with the change.

She didn't have to worry though: Another loud thunderclap sounded right above the auditorium. It was so strong, it rattled the windows. Lightning flared brightly and sparks flew from one of the overhead lights. There were several loud popping sounds then the room went completely dark.

An old lady screamed. Soon lots of people were screaming. A mad scramble followed.

The noise before was nothing compared to the chaos that broke out then. Chairs clattered to the floor, orderlies shouted commands and waved their flashlights about but that only made things more confusing.

Violet stayed where she'd been when the lights went out, rooted to the spot. Someone grabbed her arm.

"Come on, Violet," Dandy said urgently. Though he was right beside her, she could barely make out his features in the darkness. "It's not safe here."

He tugged on her insistently and she followed, trusting him to know where he was going.

The young man had maintained a nice physique within Briarcliff and he used his strength to shoulder through the darting bodies. He kept a solid grip on Violet's forearm and together they made it out into the hall. They pushed through the tide of panicked patients, down black halls, until they reached the one that led to the cafeteria.

The doors had been left open when the show started and Dandy led the way through the mezzanine, into the kitchen. While patients were allowed to be in there if they had work duty, it was only during the day. Violet hadn't been given kitchen duty yet but she had been through the kitchens as a staff member. She suddenly realized where it was he was leading her.

Sure enough, they rounded a corner and in the dim from the backup emergency lighting, she could see the outline of the delivery door. Boyd was there already. So was Shelly. The older blonde made a face on seeing Violet but she tugged the door open anyway. Violet expected the alarm to go off but the only sound was that of the storm.

"Come on!" Shelly said. "We won't get a better chance than this!"

She ducked out then. Boyd followed her. Lightning lit up the black doorway momentarily turning it white. Dandy moved to follow them, pausing just outside the door when Violet stopped at the threshold.

"What are you waiting for?" he smiled. He tugged her arm. "Don't you want to be free?"

Thunder growled angrily. The floor was getting wet.

"I.. I can't," said Violet. She tugged her arm free and stepped back.

He blinked then frowned. She could tell his feelings were hurt but his expression hardened proudly. "It's because of _him_. Isn't it?"

She looked down at the rainwater on the floor as she tried to sort out how to answer that without hurting him further. That was answer enough.

"Fine! Stay with him, then!" Dandy flared. "I hate you! I don't need you! I hope you both die here!"

He disappeared into the darkness then. Violet moved to the doorway and had to hug herself against the chill of the wind that whipped in. The rain soaked her quickly, hitting her like icy waves. She couldn't see much more than the black outlines of plants being thrashed by the wind.

Suddenly Dandy was back, right in front of her. She skipped back in surprise and would have fallen but he caught her by her upper arms. His grip was intense but not quite painful.

"I didn't mean it," he said in a low tone as intense as his grip. "I don't hate you, Violet. I don't want you to die. I'll come back for you. I promise."

He kissed her then, hard and deep, then he disappeared into storm.

—

The asylum was still in bedlam when Violet got back to the main ward. Every available staff member was having to forcibly restrain some out of control inmate. People were screaming and crying and laughing and cursing. People ran by in the darkness. Violet tripped over someone sprawled in the hall more than once.

It was like a weird dream, an impression only furthered by the medication she was on. She moved like a sleepwalker through the chaos, seeing it like it was slow motion. Passing the nurse's station, she caught a glimpse of her blurry reflection in the dark glass. She looked like a psychotic clown, with her rain-streaked cheap mascara running down her cheeks and garish red lipstick smeared from Dandy's kiss. She rubbed her forearm on her mouth but only made the mess worse.

Two men near her broke out in a brawl, encouraging her to keep moving. She probably should have gone to her room but it was Tate's room she entered. She couldn't see anything at first but as her eyes adjusted, she could make out the bed he was strapped to. Crossing the short distance, she paused at the bedside to stare down at the faint outline of his sleeping face. She reckoned they had sedated him, for him to sleep through the noise of the riot.

She smoothed his messy hair and smiled at how soft it was. She took a seat on the edge of the cot then and pushed her shoes off. She looked at him again and it crossed her mind that she could get in trouble just being with him while he was restrained. But he was so vulnerable, she couldn't leave him undefended. There were too many people in Briarcliff who wanted to hurt him.

She leaned over him, taking care to keep her damp hair from falling on him, and lightly she pressed her lips to his. She felt him sigh softly. She settled next to his side then and placed one arm protectively over his chest.

...

 **November 1, 1968**

Briarcliff's common yard was a wide open space between the main building and the secondary building that gave access to the other facilities on campus, such as the laundry and greenhouse. The space consisted of a wide square flat of checkerboard concrete, flanked on all sides by grass. There were no other plants. No benches or activities cluttered the space. It was stark and severe, fenced in on all sides.

Once a month, the patients were escorted outside for fresh air and "exercise". In the past, this had meant simply herding them all out into the space and leaving them for an hour. After the recent madness and additional escapes, the hospital had instituted new, more severe rules.

Instead of being allowed to wander the open space, every single inmate was chained to the O-rings set into the large block of concrete. Many were in strait jackets, to make sure they couldn't harm one another while they were chained.

Picketed like animals, the patients of Briarcliff shuffled and shivered as another cold winter rain began to fall from the gray sky.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Cue music, roll credits.

Happy pre-Halloween season! This chapter was kind of a mashup of ideas spawned from AHS Asylum, AHS Freakshow, The Titicut Follies, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and Freaks. There was also a bit of a Joker and Harley Quinn cameo there. With this much insanity, I couldn't resist. The very end piece there was visually inspired by the new Halloween movie with legendary scream queen Jamie Lee Curtis.

Next episode: It's **Harvest** time. Maybe you _should_ fear the reaper.


End file.
